He blinked drowsily. His body was stiff and sore. He realized he couldn't turn his head to the right, maybe he'd slept in the wrong position, he thought. The warm air rising off his sweaty back made his awareness sharper. So he was lying on the sofa in his living room. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten home after last night's drinking. Everything was just a blank, uncertain gap. He didn't want to think, his body was begging him to sleep more. He was so exhausted.
Trying to shift, he rolled his whole body toward the right, facing the sofa's backrest. The relief was immediate; his back was freed from that cheap faux-leather. Breezes from the fan in the corner blew through his shirt and made him breathe easier. With his eyes still shut tight, he tried to bury himself back into sleep.
In the moment before sinking into deeper dream, he suddenly felt someone moving toward him, right behind his back. The person paused, stepped a little closer, then sat down on his hip. The spot where he lay sagged noticeably and he panicked a little. Then a ticklish sensation on his legs made him shiver. He felt fingernails probing his feet, in little taps and strokes.
This was his wife's strange morning habit when she woke him to take the kids to school. That creepy sensation would shake the sleep off him and he'd grumble as he sat up. This time, maybe because he was so tired, both mind and body were yielding to this "torture" and he still tried to sink deeper into sleep.
But...
No. This isn't right! his mind suddenly screamed. He'd been living alone for months. Ever since that day, his wife had taken the two kids and left, only he remained, staggering home alone. He couldn't believe his wife would do something like that, and he certainly couldn't imagine she'd forgiven him after what had happened.
"Who?" he tried to answer.
His brain gradually cleared, though his eyes were still shut. His spine crawled with gooseflesh as it searched for a rational explanation to calm him. Every answer his mind offered led to the thing he least wanted. He tried to turn his head to see what was happening and realized he couldn't; his body no longer obeyed even though his brain was frantic with orders. He endured the feeling of long pointed nails tracing around his ankles, then his feet...
"A ghost? Really a ghost?" his body froze with that thought.
Was it because the house lacked the living's yang energy, or had he somehow offended some spirit? More importantly: what did "they" want with him, and why keep scratching his feet the way his wife used to? He didn't know. Doubt became the lever that pried his mind loose from the materialist logic he'd always clung to. People's minds fear what they cannot understand.
Time passed, he had no idea how long it was, while his brain kept inventing scenarios that made him increasingly panic-stricken. In that moment he heard his heart pounding right in his ears, blood pulsing, the rhythm speeding. He began to think of death, or something worse.
No, he didn't want to die. Even though he'd had thoughts of ending it in recent weeks, he absolutely did not want to die in some grotesque way like this. With the last of his strength clutching at hope, he inhaled deeply and tried to turn once more.
"Aaah...!", an involuntary cry burst out as he flung himself around.
There was nothing there but empty air. He looked around: the room was empty. The dim light from the windows of the building across the way made that perfectly clear. He really was in his living room, but there was no sign anyone else had been there. His heavy breathing began to steady, but the creepy feeling remained. Watching the pale gray curtain sway a little, he still wondered if it had all been a nightmare. But if it were a dream, what explained the vivid feeling of someone sitting on him and touching his legs... His question drifted off into silence.
A chill spreading through him made him decide to sit up and check around. Outside on the balcony the moon was blurred behind a thin cloud.
"3:39 a.m.", he tapped his phone which was on the table beside a row of empty beer cans. The sour tang of beer yeast hung in the air. For some reason he felt nauseous, and for an instant he hated that burning brew he'd been knocking back for months. Stumbling toward the bathroom, he felt for the light, squinting at the cold white glare. Blinking to clear the dizzy spell, he walked to the sink and ran water. Splashing cool water on his face helped him wake up a bit.
Looking at himself in the mirror, the drunkenness and fear seemed to ease. What caught his eye was the appearance of the man in the glass. The wrinkled dark-gray shirt with the top two buttons undone, patches of sweat on exposed skin. His hair stuck up, matted and tossed to both sides in a disordered way; there was a tuft at the back sticking up like a knot. But more striking than all that was his untrimmed beard, it sprouted wildly, making his elongated face look gaunt and shabby. Though slightly puffy and with faint reddish marks, his deep-set eyes and thick eyebrows still kept that damned handsomeness he'd always had. Right, that damn handsome look! He ran a hand over his face, feeling his beard...
He remembered his wife saying she hated that look, it made him look like a rugged playboy, not the meek trainee she'd mentored years ago. He'd just laughed and said he was getting older, let the beard grow so people would address him differently, then left happily, making sure to glance at himself in the mirror one more time. That day he had an date, "no, a meeting", with the contractor for a project the CEO had handed him full authority to handle. He'd thought his suit and appearance matched a man at the peak of his career. The phone rang; he stepped out and cheerfully told the driver to wait while he popped into the convenience store downstairs, that he'd tip extra after. He slammed the door, unaware his little boy asked his older sister, "Why didn't Dad hug me today?" and of his wife's distant, worried look as she watched him go.
Back to the present, he fumbled until he found a can of shaving foam on the shelf behind the mirror. The metal bottom of the can was rusted and stained. He shook it and sprayed a layer of foam; it didn't puff the way he remembered but had become thick. He wasn't sure if it was still within its expiration, but he rubbed it onto his face anyway.
Waiting for the foam to soften the thicket of stubble, he undressed and stepped into the shower. He felt the sting as the blade scraped through the dense beard. He should have trimmed a bit before shaving. He turned the shower to cold so the water would soothe the red, sore spots and wash away the lingering haze and half-dreams.
After showering, wrapped only in a towel, he went back to the bedroom. Opening the door, he found the bedside lamp still on. The clock read a little past four in the morning. He had left the light on until now. Or maybe it had been on since his wife left, he wondered. He flopped onto the messy bed with pillows, blankets, stuffed toys, and clothes, clean or dirty who knew, inhaled and smelled what he'd always called the dust smell. A faint memory echoed: his wife yelling at the three of them to clean the house, everyone doing their share. He curled up, tucked his legs, wrapped his arms around himself. Trying to soothe himself, he closed his eyes hoping to recapture the sleep the nightmare had stolen. There were drops of water on the brozen sheet, from his still-wet hair, or something else, he couldn't tell...
The alarm clock sounded. He woke, annoyed.
He didn't know what possessed him to agree to buy that mushroom-shaped clock, perhaps to please his wife's taste. When he first heard its annoying sound he immediately hated it. The manufacturer must somehow have known exactly how to pick a noise that shatters every nap. Though he'd said he wanted to throw the clock away, he gave in because the framed family photo, the one taken the day their daughter finished primary school, was tucked into it. The little girl had been quick to put the picture in, and he relented.
He reached to tap the mushroom cap to cut the hateful sound off, then flopped back down trying to chase the fragmented dream. He tilted his head to the window and noticed light seeping through the thin white curtain. He frowned. He didn't think he could sleep anymore. He lay there with his eyes closed, letting the warm light wash over his face.
Suddenly he felt a coldness at his lower body. The towel wrapped around him had slipped off during sleep and a chill wind seemed to be wrapping his legs and hips. Worse, it crept up toward his stomach, then his chest. He blinked down, momentarily blinded by the light, with a buzzing in his head. He turned his head away and squinted repeatedly to adjust, then slowly opened his eyes...
Directly below him was the silhouette of a woman, lying face down on top of him. Hair fell around and to the right, covering her chest. At that angle the light didn't reach her face, so he couldn't recognize who she was. More disturbing than that was the fact she wasn't fully "real", she was kind of "partly transparent". He could see through her hair and the white dress she wore to the naked flesh of his own body beneath. As soon as his brain took all that in, it told him to try to break free. Strangely, although he felt no weight at all, his body was pinned to the bed and wouldn't move. The only thing he could control was his head, which kept jerking and struggling. His eyes opened wide and stared at that transparent body, but he couldn't open his mouth. The cry stuck and reverberated back into his brain as a sound of sheer terror. Paralyzed with fear, he tried to force signals into his hands and feet to launch himself up, but they felt like someone else's limbs and obeyed no commands. When he gave up from exhaustion, he realized even his eyes no longer listened to him; they remained open, lifelessly watching that figure, as if someone else were pulling his eyelids to check his pupils' reaction.
Then she moved very slowly. He watched her raise herself, supporting both hands on his chest. When she turned her head toward him, her hair brushed his chest even though it wasn't very long. In that instant, despite being utterly terrified, a thought flared: he absolutely must know who this was. She had tormented his mind so much; at least he deserved the truth. His eyes followed the body as it very slowly, slowly sat upright on his belly, waiting for a face to appear. But when the light from outside filtered through her tresses, he froze: behind them was a pale, blurred face. It was as if someone had put a skincare mask over a face, but where the eyes and mouth should be there were oval hollows. A transparent mannequin that could move was sitting on him; his misplaced sense of humor surfaced oddly right then, and paradoxically loosened him a bit. Clearly this was less awful than a face streaming blood from its mouth or eyes.
"G-g-get up... g-get up... d-don't go, p-please don't... go..."
"G-g-get up... g-get up... d-don't go, oh d-ear... d-don't... go..."
He wasn't imagining it. The "mannequin" was repeating those words, over and over. "Get up, don't go, don't go", he wondered what that meant. Was it speaking to him, or to someone else? The voice grew louder with each repetition. At first a whisper, then pleading, and now it sounded like a firm order. His fear gave way to curiosity; if he could open his mouth, he would demand to know. The mannequin sat motionless, its cold body wrapped around him, torturing him with those increasingly insistent phrases.
Suddenly its head began to twitch like it'd been shot, jerking left, then collapsing right. The sound it made, though still loud, went hoarse and garbled. If the figure weren't so terrifyingly transparent, he might have thought it a prank using a robot. While staring in stunned horror at the grotesque sight, his brain suddenly registered signals from his limbs: he began to wiggle his fingertips. The mannequin's body started spasming wildly too. The plea "get up, don't go" now sounded like the scream of a girl in pain watching the one she loved walk away. He tried to raise his arms and legs bit by bit to shove the mannequin off, but even lifting them exhausted him.
Just as he felt his muscles beginning to respond, the mannequin's head turned and looked straight at him. No need to wait for some revelation, the hollows on its face stared at him. Instinctively he raised a hand to cover his face and turned his head away just before the mannequin lunged. He felt a gust brush past; the strands of hair slapped his cheek and ear like cold water. Eyes squeezed shut, he screamed at the top of his lungs. The repeated phrase it'd been saying echoed in his head like someone banging a metal bucket on his skull hard enough to make his mind reel.
As the buzzing slowly faded, he felt sunshine again. The warm sensation spread across his naked sweating body.
He opened his eyes slowly and saw the sheet bunched at the foot of the bed, clear evidence he'd thrashed wildly. He sat up and wiped the sweat streaming down his face. Another dream, he thought; something strange was happening. So film-makers, who show people jolting awake from nightmares, are foolers. In his case he'd merely stiffened and endured. Grabbing a towel, he trudged out, blinking at the clock, "only 8:39?".
After washing and tidying the place a bit, he changed into comfortable clothes and went out. He had an appointment with an old colleague who said there were some subcontract jobs needing people to run operations, not a project manager role like before, but it could bring in some cash. For him now, having work mattered more than title. Despite two nightmares, he'd managed some sleep and the future was showing small signs of hope, so he left feeling refreshed.
He turned back, leading to dash into the kids' rooms, scanned around and grabbed his son's Spider-Man toy and his daughter's Olaf the snowman plush, and stuffed them into his backpack. Heading for the elevator, humming a tune. His stomach growled. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten properly. Glancing at his watch and short on time, he hit the lobby button to stop by the convenience store on the ground.
He was greeted by Van, the student who worked the morning shift. He'd once tried to flirt with her but found her naive shyness so boring. He liked a tougher challenge. At the moment, seeing Van made him feel more comfortable. "Same as usual," he said, handing his credit card. She smiled, swiped it, and handed him the bag with a large char-siu bun and a bottle of corn milk. Saying goodbye, he bit into the bun as he walked toward the garage ramp. Passing the café window near the lobby, he caught his reflection and barely recognized himself: no beard, hair smoothed down, he looked like the student he once was, with experience and fatigue on the face.
Something occurred to him and he glanced back at the convenience store, thinking Van was sweet. She'd still recognized him, even he looked pretty different to his usual . Van was still at the counter smiling as she always did, despite the empty shop. The café looked empty too, no patrons at any table and the staff probably was shirking in work time, because the business was slow. Well, the economy's rough. He continued on to the parking area; his footsteps echoed in the quiet space.
End of "Beginning"
(to be continued...)